


i don't need anyone (just everyone and then some)

by extrasystem



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Other, mentions of blood and war, sad bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23812387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extrasystem/pseuds/extrasystem
Summary: Bucky loves the moon. Coincidentally, the moon is synonymous with you.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Kudos: 15





	1. i don't need anyone (just everyone and then some)

**Author's Note:**

> so i’ve been rewatching atla and i was like... ‘omg bucky and moon spirit/tui reader’ thinking i’d do something along the lines of yue and sokka but nope. i decided to go with the fish. and me following canon ??? wtf... also there’s going to be a part 2. yes the title is from clementine by halsey.

Bucky is choking.  


The cold, saccharine treat slips down the wrong hole in his throat and he’s covering his mouth, a furious blush dotting his face. His eyes are wet, blurring the street lamps and the dim rays of light hidden behind grey clouds; the girl he’s trying to impress — a pretty redhead in a collared dress and lipstick that matches her hair — has a concerned hand on his shoulder, frantically searching for help. She’s holding a cone of strawberry ice-cream in the other and Bucky notes the splats of pink liquid hitting the gravel next to his spit.  


Loud, abrasive shouts and bells from a festival stand forces the girl's plead for help to be shoved underneath it all. She’s ushering him to the side, behind a red and white tent, patting his back with a force that his younger sisters would cackle at. His nose is running and he can finally breathe for long enough to assure Dolores — Dot — that he’s all right.

"Sweetheart, breathe," It’s comical that Bucky’s the one dropping his milky dessert into the sand and comforting her, but the grey eyes before him are pooling with tears and he can’t be bothered to act on the annoyed flame burning in his stomach. Even if the white puddle next to his feet was a result of his sacrifice. "'M good. Everything’s fine."

She’s a blubbering mess; her right hand slick with a rosy substance and a trembling chin, mimicking her younger self when playing a game of tag accidentally meant her knees scraping the pavement. Flashes of incandescent bulbs lick the sides of her tear-stricken face and she’s closing her eyes to let a fat droplet past her lashes.  


"James, I’m— I was really scared."  


He’s grabbing the damp cone from her hand and tossing it with the pale pool to entangle their sticky hands and pull the shaking girl into an embrace. Bucky’s careful to avoid her pinned hair or he’ll have to hear a string of snarky complaints after she’s finished crying into the new shirt he’s bought.   


"I know."  


Soft flushes of moonlight carve its way through irate crowds, pointed awnings and smooths the knot between his brows. It’s calming, a comfort he’ll indulge in after spots of black threatened to steal his vision. Noir skies are freed from the confines of opaque clouds to part for the blazing circle of silver. It’s the same one he admires from the window of his bedroom or the screen of his local theatre.   


And then he sees you.  


Again.

Bucky has half a mind to stalk up to you, fists clenched and accusing of the murder you almost succeeded at. Raise his voice an edge or two and smirk when you realize your assassination had failed. That he is alive and well, a darling redhead tucked under his arm with a grin that would make any man’s knees shake.   


But then _you_ smile.  


And his heart stutters, skipping a beat.

He’s still got Dolores shivering under his chin when he tenses at the fleeting eye contact between you two. 

You’re not dressed in an extravagant set of clothes or doing something bizarre. You stand in the middle of the busy walkway, wringing your hands together and tilting your head the slightest. Watching him. He’s unsure if you’re aware of the girl pressing kisses to his collarbone, though you never dip your eyes away from his own.  


Bucky is almost certain you’re reflecting the light from the moon if the haze of fluorescence is an indicator. Deep penumbras run from you, circle at a distance that looks safe from your illusory irises and hauntingly kind tug of your lips. The slight breeze has no effect on you, as if you’re a transparent figure with no intention of joining the mortal world.  


And you might be.   


You might be, if Bucky squints hard enough in the settling dusk to notice the way he can see a small child in tattered overalls walk behind you. As if they went through you, somehow. 

His date, he presumes, is satisfied with the mess of blush and lipstick on the collar of his shirt and the skin underneath it. She’s looking up at him with glassy eyes and a mischievous smile, any sign of her sobs gone as quick as his attention on her. The blue-eyed boy’s head still faces your direction, even through Dot’s pressing gaze.  


She returns her arms to her side, a frown beginning to form. 

"James?"  


You step forward, closer to them. Him.   


Free from a weak grasp, Bucky’s foot pushes against the ground to move backwards.   


Dolores is making gagging noises at the mess under their feet to gain a semblance of his focus again. She’s huffing quietly, calling his name again. The redhead has her arms crossed and pouting like a toddler, wiping the beads of white and pink from her black heel.   


You’re still playing with your fingers, the slant of your head changing in the other direction. Challenging him. 

It’s a good thing then, that Bucky doesn’t like to lose.

So, when you return to your original position, ignoring the other people that walk past with their armfuls of cotton candy and stuffed animals, he stays. Refuses to walk towards you and turns back to the girl he’s supposed to make swoon over his gelled hair and a bright smile.  


"'M sorry, Dot," He mouths, an apologetic expression and a boyish grin on his face. Her bottom lip juts outward and a spark of dread lights his chest knowing she’ll make Bucky work for it. "Lost my thought for a moment."  


Dolores unfolds her arms and sighs, "I guess you’ll just have to make it up to me. Y’know I was eyein’ those pretty lil’ bears in the carnival tents."

Bucky’s faking a toothy grin because those prizes are awfully expensive and he’s supposed to be setting money aside so Steve and he can get home. But he agrees anyway, swallowing the bitter taste of ensuing regret. She’s tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and leaning in close to him, and he can smell the artificial strawberry from her tongue.   


For weeks, he had envisioned this exact scenario with a scarlet flush and a sheepish gaze. Though, when Dot pulls away with a smirk to join the group of girls she sees behind him, Bucky’s head lulls forward in relief. The distorted moon stares back at him in the swirl of pink and white.   


He raises his head.  


You’re there, the same smile on your face and stepping back into the oncoming crowds.  


Before he can root himself in place, he’s matching your footsteps forwards. It’s as if Bucky’s chasing you, never getting too far or too close.   


You’re raising your brow, smiling as if to berate him for falling back on his word.

Push and pull.

And then, you’re gone.   


Fading into a girl with black curls and brown slacks while she runs by with an animated balloon. He’s caught under the spotlight of the celestial body above him, running into a man twice his size, muttering a quiet apology. 

Push and pull.

It’s a simple sentence that describes most of your relationship over a limited period. He doesn’t see you often, but he knows if he angles his head up or watches a body of water roll in his direction that it’s you. Or, he likes to think so.

He notices you in the corner of his eye the day he enlists into the army. Steve is next to him, frustrated and dejected at himself. The world. Maybe Bucky, as well.  


Their hands are shoved in their pockets as they walk in silence. It’s dark outside, the sun beginning to set and the moon rising. The air smells of burnt wood and traces of leaking gasoline from the cars on the road. 

"How are you gonna tell 'em?"  


Bucky frowns and glances at the blonde. "Who?"  


"Winnifred, George? Your siblings?" Steve plants himself into the dirty pavement to question him. He smirks a little at his next words, knowing the answer from his best friend. "Your girl?"  


"Shut up, punk," He’s rolling his eyes to hide Steve’s smile from reflecting on his face, even at his expense. "Dot and I didn’t work out."  


The brunette shoves him away and continues down the sidewalk that leads home, brushing the smart _'uh-huh'_ behind him. 

It’s when they've finished dinner, the white, chipped plates stained with tomato sauce and bits of pasta that he tells them. Tells them of the long line into the recruitment centre, the women with their chin’s raised as they insisted on aiding their country and the soldiers lined against the walls. Bucky doesn’t mention the 4F stamped on the paper with Steve’s name on it. Neither does the small blonde to his right.  


He earns a proud clap on his shoulder from his Pops, and his Ma offers a worried lift of her mouth. His siblings, most of them too young to understand, cheer when George prompts them too except for Becca. Her dark hair can’t hide the anger in her eyes and he knows he’s about to get a handful from her when she corners him after the news program ends. 

Winnifred relieves herself from the creaky chair, wiping her apron with shaky fingers and tells everyone to sit still. She comes out with a loaf of carrot cake, smeared with a cream cheese frosting that has him straighten his back and shoot a questioning look at the woman with enough lines around her eyes to retell tales of her children in shared baths and hand-me-down overalls. There’s twice the amount for each child, including Steve.   


His Ma — a woman with a touch that anchors him to this pitiful earth and a laugh that could halt enemy fire — is nearing the edge of collapsing into her tears. Bucky’s no better, swallowing a fiery brick of penitence. Especially when he blinks hard, looking past his Ma’s clouded eyes to be met with yours.   


Faded. Chilled.

A cool contrast to the fire on his cheeks and flames at the edge of his eyes.   


"Had a feelin’ it’d be a special day today," Winnifred places the plate with a soft bump on the wood, standing behind her first-born and tangling her hands worn from ironing and sewing into Bucky’s hair. She places a kiss into his hair like the time the boy burned his thumb from pressing it against a red kettle. "'M proud of you, Buck."  


"Thanks, Ma."  


It’s a hoarse whisper from his mouth, but it’s all the tip of his bitten tongue can fathom. It’s quickly replaced by his siblings' impatient whines and insistent cries for a piece of cake, or _"Ma, can I jus’ have the frosting."_  


Steve squeezes his elbow twice, sitting between him and Becca and trudging through the funnel of inescapable questions from the girl when Bucky’s chewing at the browned crust. He’s unwilling to break free from his reverie, staring into the painting he hung a couple of years ago. At least, that’s what Steve assumes without the capacity to see the person leaning onto the frame with a sympathetic expression. 

You’re smiling, something from the children's books the younger Barnes’ read before bed. Truthfully, Bucky doesn’t know when you’re not wearing a small tug in your lips and a faint glow of pale sapphire. He can’t tear his gaze from you, the unsettled rumble in his chest soothed under a series of waves that appeared when you did.

Peace and war.

Closely intertwined to the point where Bucky’s too afraid to ask when one ends and the other begins. Born amid the first war only to serve in the next several decades later. Then, he’s looking at the rowdy people surrounding the table that has scratches of coloured wax, chipped edges and a family that he refuses to see six feet under. 

Suddenly, the ounce of hesitance or regret that swirled his mind is wiped in favour of a passion for the people that he loves. For the people that he hasn’t gotten the chance to yet.

And you.

Bucky doesn’t know you, though he’s familiar with the ocean of calm and familiarity you carry with you whenever he’s lucky enough to watch you appear in shades of black. It’s as if you met in another lifetime, or you’ve known him since he came from his mother’s womb. Under a dark sky with dots of shaded light, separating evil from good.  


He’s fighting for a future with enough red, white and blue to symbolize freedom. You tilt your head, nose scrunching when your quiet laugh touches the side of your cheeks like his thought is one of a child’s. It’s a sight he wishes upon the very sun to witness again and again. 

Most importantly, he decides, is that he’s fighting for himself.  


Peace and war.

A constant cycle like it’s sister of permanent unconsciousness and temporary sentience. The first sequence is repeated enough within society that Bucky’s unsure if all of this is worth it anymore. The gruesome deaths, days of longing and blood in his mouth that doesn’t belong to him. Subsequently, there’s the panic that he shoves down with the rest of his memories in Brooklyn when he leads his men into camp after camp, holding his breath with every trigger that’s pulled and each life that ends with it.

They’re scum, though; Nazi’s who deserve to kneel before Satan and pray for a semblance of mercy for the damage to the world they’ve caused. Bucky’s heard the mantra’s and chants, even before England. He’s repeated the bitter coats of propaganda until his jaw ached and chest swelled from flashes of their enemies under the heel of his boot.

Truly, the empathy and fear that betrays the Sergeant’s puddle of a mind make him reel; the salt in his mouth forces him to lean his head over the edge, spit until his mouth is dry and head empty. In a place where quick-witted bites and smart remarks earn you a cracked bone, he welcomes the silence for once. Free from gunshots and IED’s that are followed by screams that haunt Bucky into a routine without rest.  


He hasn’t rested in a long time. Long enough for him to question if the coloured injections in his skin are causing him to imagine things or if it’s his mind deceiving him. He can’t even blame the stubby man with round glasses and hands that wound Bucky more than the scar that trails from his neck to his spine. 

Though, he supposes, Bucky should have expected it. Anticipated the pity and fear as you take form near where his left arm is strapped to the slab of leather that makes his skin crawl. You’re clutching your hands and lowering yourself onto the grey concrete, the light through the windows passing by you like you’re nothing.   


His bleeding, cracked lips open to tell you otherwise but you’re already smiling and shaking your head. He listens, saving his breath for another time when the man with an eerie smile decides that Bucky’s whimpers and shallow screams are the channel on the radio he would prefer to hear that day. An involuntary wrack of his body and your smile falters, your eyes dismissing the possibility of leaving him and a transparent hand hovers over the right side of his quivering jaw.   


Never touching.

Somehow, without his Ma’s kiss to his forehead or Becca’s half-hearted shove, he finds a sliver of solace in a dungeon that he might never leave. Your stare is a clouded blanket for his blue body and the moonlight behind you seeps in from the windows until you’re an opaque vision of his. Lovely in the way your mouth curls and the wisps of peace he feels from your fingers less than an inch away.   


You remind him of home. An ethereal, abstract version of New York City that numbs the pain from inside his soul to the outside of his skin.

Rather than the usual slant of your head and challenging gaze, you nod. He reciprocates like a reflection and there’s an instant relief in your dropped shoulders. You’re pulling away, onto your feet and Bucky wants to yell, beg, cry for you to stay. He’s mumbling something incoherent but you nod kindly anyways.

All at once, a familiar voice that splatters the air with a string of nonsense and, "It’s me. It’s Steve."

You’re backing away and Bucky’s brain fries, attempting to process the soldier who claims to be his childhood friend and your fading figure.   


"Steve?" His mind narrows on the person in front of him, mimicking a smile of yours as he’s helped off the bed. "Steve…"  


His head’s a mess, eyes blinking like it’ll erase the horrors of war and Steve’s terrified stare to reverse time to when his only worry was the ice cream he threw in the sand. Through the stumble of his words and Steve’s alarmingly different figure, he’s lead out of the office. They tread carefully, tiptoeing to not disturb stilled black and the series of gunshots that ring in the background. 

The walls are covered in red brick and rays of light through dirty panes. Bucky’s clutching his chest, following Steve through the maze and it’s hard to breathe. His dear friend, a skinny kid from Brooklyn with too many health issues to narrowly survive the flu, is taller than him now. A shield in his hand and armour that would have flooded his body a month ago. Bucky might be hallucinating.  


"Did it hurt?"  


Steve marches onward with a hot spark of determination, unwilling to spare him a glance. "A little."  


The echoes of automatic weapons and bombs that threaten to summon the grim reaper grow closer. For each window they pass, a screech pierces the thin air.   


"Is it permanent?"  


"So far."  


He doesn’t know where Steve’s taking him and doesn’t care to ask. Bucky’s nauseous, limping like a gazelle toward the steel railing until a gold flame trickles over and under the contraptions below; flashes of light accompany them with scraps of heated metal. They go higher, running up sets of stairs as if they’re in New York again, hiding from the other kids in a game of tag.  


They’re interrupted by a voice that prompts his heart to leap to his throat and the image of the men who have taken more from Bucky than he’s ever received. Standing across the gap, a handful of lunges away, he wishes he felt anger — vengeance. Rather, his mind betrays him once more and a lick of fear tenses his muscles, grasping at his lungs. He swallows it, turning to Steve for a fraction of guidance.  


His face is set, jaw rigid and closing the space between right and wrong.   


Good and evil.

Steve’s throwing a punch and Bucky can’t hide the tiny smirk on his face, well aware of the practice he’s had in polluted alleyways and behind the schoolyard. It’s quickly wiped when he’s thrown back and the safety of his gun is tossed into an orange inferno. His opponent, a man with dark leather and a darker mind, peels the skin from his face to unveil a crimson that rivals the blood on Bucky’s tongue. 

"You don’t have one of those," The Sergeant starts, the electric stun of shock keeping him grounded on teetering iron, "do you?"  


Then, the elevator is shutting and abandoning them in blazes of yellow and scarlet. The building is falling apart as rapidly as the synapses in his brain. 

They’re going to die.  


Steve’s urging him to cross and Bucky’s shaking, narrowing in on the other side that reveals the prospect of a future. Life. Family. Steve. He swears he can see you, too.  


Suddenly, he’s there and the column crumbles. And, god, he can’t think straight because he’s panicking. Steve’s at the other end and an uneasiness that spikes his adrenaline begin pulsing from his fingertips to the bottom of his feet. He won’t leave, not without the warmth of a blonde who can’t tell the difference between bravery and stupidity.   


_ "No! Not without you!" _

Good and evil.  


It flashes in front of him against the slate of white and grey. He can feel his organs shoved against his stomach, epinephrine soaring through his limbs and his throat would be raw from screaming if he could feel it. The only thing that chases him now is a steel rod that belonged to the outside of a train. 

As a rush of wind and pellets of snow envelope him, Bucky yearns for forgiveness. Lenience for what he’s done — what he should have done. He prays that his Ma knows he didn’t mean the snarky remarks and complaints that spilled from his mouth a lifetime ago. Pleads that his siblings are aware of the jar of bill and coins stashed under his bed that he left behind for them. Wishes that he told Steve he was proud of him, even past the sarcastic comments and valour that will get him killed one day.

Bucky craves for a tombstone that highlights his few moments of merit as opposed to the bad.   


He hopes they lie.  


He’s unsure of when his descent into an icy ravine ends, the landing a sharp lightning rod of pain followed by a numbness that Bucky’s relieved at. His vision of pale, clouded skies and harsh lines of rocky mountains are tainted black. Spots of noir that seep from the corner of his eyes leave small spots of white and he can’t move his body. He might already be dead, the chants of hell a short distance away.  


His eyelids blink hastily, the darkness overpowering his will to live.   


You appear from nowhere, though he supposes he should be accustomed to it. Blinding light in the midst of dimmed shadows and a haunted mind. Bucky knows it’s bad when a deep frown replaces your grin and he can feel the coolness of your skin on his. There’s an unsettling worry in your glowing irises, placing your hands over his chest to allow a shallow breath rattle through his chest. 

It’s quiet, the contact between you two. Wordless, like it always is. 

You’re the sole reason his drooping eyes haven’t shut yet; the moon in an ocean of ink. A gentle hand threads his damp hair and the other interlaces with his right. The feeling is similar to the waves on the beach that used to blanket his body, chilling his sunburnt skin until it calmed. He exhales when you smile, albeit with a touch of deep blue and traces of fear on your face.

You’re beginning to fade away, but Bucky knows it’s not you this time.   


Life and death.

The periods of darkness last longer than the light you provide and there’s a line of blood that paints the snow behind him. He’s moving and you’re crawling to stay at his side, tilting his chin to avoid the sight of what’s left of his deranged arm. Though, at the cost of unfamiliar men invading his line of vision, mouthing words he doesn’t understand. You’re staring at him with a shaky lift of your lips, silently reassuring him that everything will be alright.

Life and death.

Bucky has experienced both. Teetering in the middle of both realms, dipping his toes to get a taste of one or the other. 

He doesn’t do either, anymore.   


There is nothing in his mind. Not a name, age or purpose. Simply a mission that needs to be executed. He is a fragment of a person with a head that doesn’t belong to him and an arm that whirls with every throat between its fingers. Bucky is nobody. 

He lives in penumbras and behind the scope of a gun; the snap of someone's life roughly tugged with his metal hand. Every burst of emotion is forced from his brain and erased until the ice drowns him and he’s gone, sinking further and further. He sleeps indefinitely, but he is tired. Exhausted from nothing and everything that is demanded of him.  


He stays awake longer than he ever has, being assigned several targets over several days. Looking back now, that might have been HYDRA’s worst mistake and Bucky’s blessing. It’s how he finds himself in front of a memorial, hair tucked under a cap and eyes narrowed at a face that eerily mimics his. 

The name at the top states, _"James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes"._  


It isn’t him, but it is from almost a century ago. Stagnant in a colourless image in a decade that he cannot recall. Bucky. The name is one that he knots his brows together and tenses his jaw at until frayed ropes of his memory can be tugged into its rightful place. The overload of information and a miserable revival has Bucky drained. 

Vibrant swirls and bursts of recollection give him a headache as he quietly mouths each sentence, glancing over at your figure in between. Your hands are folded against your lower stomach, head angled to gloss over the paragraph of nonsense that lacks substance and truth. He watches you take a step closer and your pointer finger drag from the top to the bottom, lifting a brow at the error in dates. The whites of your teeth are exposed as you take in the title.

_ 'A Fallen Comrade'. _

There’s a squeal somewhere behind him and he assumes it’s one of the scattered children littering the hallways of the museum, tugging their parent’s sleeves at the sight of Captain America. Steve. Both. Three men each are angled behind Steve and he wishes that the sight brought him a rush of knowledge and sudden understanding. It doesn’t.   


You do, though.  


Not necessarily a piece of literature that unlocks his past or future, but a constant; Bucky knows you have stood beside him before the beginning of the twenty-first century and he’s content with at least one regularity in his life. You’re an unconventional grounding technique as opposed to the sour stings of citrus and cold showers he’s read in a self-help book. He would thank you if you spoke, albeit the fact that he doesn’t do much of that now anyway.   


So, you smile; an expression that threatens to halt the earth’s rotation and consume the planet with floods that would force the tallest skyscrapers to the bottom of the deep sea. You pace in circles around him until he’s dizzy and irritated, slinking by the groups of curious Washington residents to prod at the uniform exhibits. Blending into a mixture of someone’s shirt and slipping to the other side, returning to your faded figure.   


Bucky ignores you in a frustrated attempt to learn more about who he is and what lead him to this moment. The words are useless. However, the videos that loop on a bright screen are not. Flickering at the edges, outlining the traces of men in the middle of a war, slowing at two soldiers side by side that he recognizes as him and Steve. Captain. Whatever they call him now.   


Black and white.  


All of it.  


There is no middle ground between the two shades mixed together. One or the other. Videos and photos that are blurred by the reality of it and he hears the creak in metal when his fists clench, pulse steadily increasing with every breath. You’re there in an instant, placing a hand over his, holding his black gaze with pale stars in your eyes. 

He might never find grey.

Not without you.


	2. tender yellow, blues (still with one eye open, all i see is you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when you mix black and white?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the second and final part. thanks for sticking it out with me. one last thing — this is a love story.

Black and white.

They are his dreams and nightmares. The odd fantasies in the day when ripe plums grow bitter and dry on his tongue. As the journal under his pen is bruised an ugly violet from staying in the same position. It spreads in various directions, blurring the scribbles on the other side of the page and damp after being left open on the counter once the sunsets.   


The tip of his finger underlines each word as his eyes follow the block lettering, the other hand cradling his chin. The thin paper, printed in masses that result in ink-stained fingertips, is folded at the edges and bolded by the new traumas of tomorrow. Teeth gnawing at his bottom lip, Bucky’s chest leaps in anticipation of the day his face and title headlines the achromatic sheet. 

Below the apartment and outside the window, he hears the faint trails of radio fuzziness and quiet voices. He shifts from the edge of the sofa, teetering to angle his body to watch you lean over the open windowsill. Your forehead rests on peeling wood while your hands are thrown haphazardly, glazing over the rough brick to peer at ruffles of black. The sky is clear and lacks a mist that shields your journey onto earth.  


The words he’s muttered over for the last hour become weary in his mouth and his palms rub at the overgrown hair on his face. Bucky traces the practiced routine he has written on the first page of his journal; he checks the locks on all the entry points, turning the lights down and tucking his belongings into their rightful places. Stripping the layers off his torso in favour of soft cotton before slumping onto the mattress on the ground. 

Dark plaid is tucked under his chin and struggles to cover his lower calves, the chilled air prodding at Bucky’s skin. He watches you push yourself off the ledge and encourage the salt of an ocean far away to trickle into the apartment; a dim glow corresponds with each of your careful footsteps, kneeling in front of him and smiling softly. The steady rise and fall of your chest is an action that he attempts to imitate to relieve the pressure on his chest and the absence of oxygen in his limbs.   


And he’s squeezing his eyes closed, swallowing the slate of concrete in his throat as his mind betrays him again. Flashes of Steve’s fingertips brushing over his, followed by a shout of his name. Then there’s the chair and the ice. Freezing and searingly hot when needles enter his tainted skin, an involuntary kick of his leg until he forces his knees to his chest. Away from the cold and closer to you.   


Bucky can’t breathe. 

Huffing his chest with short gasps through cracked lips, he continues to the point where he’s lightheaded and fuzzy. Every night is different. A new tactical strategy to lure sleep and grasp onto it long enough for the sun to rise again. He supposes this works, the heaviness in his head a close enough relative to temporary unconsciousness that Bucky is satisfied with. The lids of his eyes, damp with a liquid that stings the better part of his face, crack open to be met with vibrant hues, twisting in shapes to create you.   


Bright and dull.  


His nightmares arrive in a chariot tonight, followed by armed guards and an unstoppable magic-wielder behind them. It’s similar to the films that would play in theatres another century ago. Small hints of noir are creased darker and darker and flashing scenes of white grow dim. Dull in the way a sword cuts through his arm and slices into his chest, the sorcerer drawing litres of crimson paint from his throat. The blood is rougher than he remembers and it feels like sandpaper as it exits to enter the men in the carriage. 

He wakes, shouting for no one and everyone simultaneously. The sheet that was neatly coddled around him is thrown onto the floor, a sheen of sweat replacing it. Bucky sits up abruptly to be met with your face a foot away, sitting near the end of the bed. Always, always, always. You’re donning an empathetic smile and the cool of your fingertips brush over the back of his hand when he gulps at the welcomed change in temperature.   


Your mouth parts to pull a wave of air into your body and he does the same. Holds his breath until you make a show of exhaling through your nostrils. You repeat that up till the weapon is no longer lodged between his ribcage and the ache in his arm floats away into the street below. A gentle hand prompts Bucky to fall back into the mattress again. Leaning over him, your left hand cradles his forehead and the other wipes his face, shutting his eyes closed. Darkness is rubbed raw and hard to the point where it doesn’t exist on the back of his eyelids.

Bright in the way nostalgia threads his organs and releases his caged mind temporarily. Sleep comes in brilliant shades of yellows and greens from the flowers in his sisters’ hair to the sketchbooks Steve used to show him. Vibrant flashes welcome him into a dream that involves children blowing at white dandelions and touch-starved hands that find their way into someone else's.  


Bright and dull.  


The lights that blink tauntingly at him, proudly announcing to him and the soldiers circling him that, _"This is the end of the line. There’s nowhere left to run."_

Bucky deserves it.   


The distinction between the Soldat and him is still blurry, faded and bleeding into the unknown areas of his brain. Ripped apart for a fraction of the time where they were one and the same. It’s confusing, the way he’s being punished for actions that occurred in a past life but deserving still.   


And, _god_. He wasn’t going to kill anyone.  


Maybe he shouldn’t have run and jumped from the apartment, though there weren’t many options he could have fathomed at the moment. Steve, in his suit and holding that damn shield from all those years ago, pleading with him. Asking him to trust him when there were gunshots and people crashing through the windows to stamp Bucky’s name into the history books forever.   


It always ends in a fight.

If he’s sure of one thing, it’s that. Nowadays, the lone variable of uncertainty is who wins and loses. Today, he lost. Strapped to a metal chair with titanium straps locking him into place, ensuring his left arm is completely disabled. Stuck. Trapped in the dark of a moving transportation device surrounded by men eager to obey and even more excited to pull the trigger and claim the Winter Soldier’s corpse as their own. Captured within his own mind and overwhelmed with Nazi propaganda.   


He can only escape through sheer will and the rush of sea waves in his ears as you rock back and forth. The only true source of light in the confines of four walls and steel floor, bypassing all feeble attempts made by minimal LED lights that litter his restraints. _Help me,_ he thinks, knowing you can’t. _Help me and I can help you._

You don’t need help, not from a man with half a mind least of all.   


Nevertheless, you nod and play into his scenario with an aching beam and comforting eyes. Blur the tender blues and indigo shapes on his pale skin by the shimmer of your light, cleansing shallow air so he can breathe. You lean back, far enough that you’re cross-legged and your arms are caught behind you. The ground beneath you rumbles and rolls forward, causing the armed men to grasp onto the side of the walls. You’re unfazed, smiling despite it all. Without fear of the unknown and the prison Bucky will surely find himself in.  


He’s going to pay. The debt collectors are pounding at his wooden door and chipping away at the lock. Except it’s more than any economic ruin he may have provoked, but the lives he has personally escorted to the afterlife. Regardless if they were worthy of death or not. For once, Bucky has nothing left to offer.  


Not his service, dedication or arm. He swears on his family’s graves that he has given everything he can, even as the multitude of different people he’s lived as. Bucky has sacrificed his life, future and sanity for something he’s not sure exists anymore. He can’t recall seeing a sliver of freedom or America. Perhaps it’s because all he does is give, offer and _give_ until the pot is hollow and empty.   


Give and take. 

The rest of the world doesn’t see it that way. They point and accuse him of taking, stealing and _taking_ pieces of reality that he hasn’t gotten the chance to touch. Bucky doesn’t know; he isn’t sure of much anymore, merely hopes that Steve does. He doesn’t have to worry about you — a steadfast and resolute culmination of his very best daydreams and memories, always grinning and painfully patient.   


If anyone gives it would be you, holding a lovely glint in your irises as you stand and rest your palm to his forehead and the other over his eyes. The tension in his bones falter and he is greeted with spirited orbs of greens and yellows from your gentle touch. You shut out the shadows and protect him in the black as you have done repeatedly without compensation. Bucky envisions tender yellow, blues surrounding your figure and whites in your eyes.

Give and take.   


"What’s gonna happen to your friends?" 

He swallows the brick in his throat, taking in the expansive windows in front of him and the flickering lights inside the jet. The straps over his chest are uncomfortably tight, though minimal in comparison to the weighted set of guilt that squeezes his lungs. Steve gulps a mouthful of air and sighs; his line of sight broken from the sky before them for the first time since they boarded. 

A beat. 

In the corner of Bucky’s vision, glaring at the bottom of Steve’s seat, he witnesses a soft glow of cerulean. 

The blonde shakes his head, declaring, "Whatever it is, I’ll deal with it." He shouldn’t have to, not after everything he’s done.   


"I don’t know if I’m worth all this, Steve."  


Another.  


His phrases of consolation fall on deaf ears and a burdened heart. The words exchanged are short and teetering between a truth and a lie and Bucky doesn’t know what the difference is. Steve is trying, infuriatingly attempting to soothe the blistering burn in his gut with the salve on his tongue.   


"What you did all those years," Steve starts, slow and careful, darting his eyes around the jet. There’s a flush of irritation and the realization of your presence forces a blue flame into soot in his stomach, "it wasn’t you. You didn’t have a choice."  


A tired sigh escapes Bucky’s mouth and he leans back into the chair to tilt his head at the deep penumbras, tinting the far corner. You’re threading your fingers below your waist and tugging the ends of your mouth down into a half-moon. Written over your face are pages of sorrow and he can’t help but wonder if it’s his fault. 

He stares at you, now. Mouth set and stance rigid, confessing, "I know. But I did it."

Another.  


And Bucky cannot halt the thoughts of Steve’s friends — family — abandoned and alone at that airport to be convicted for his crimes. Worst of all, he thinks, is that half of Steve’s family were the ones fighting them.   


Unity and division.  


Reunited with his childhood companion and partner-in-crime, only to tear apart the family he had fostered when Bucky disappeared. A heady, thick cloud shoves his tongue back into his mouth and the faster the green landscape around them blurs, the further translucent and fictional you become. Grey like the wings of the man who called himself Sam, left behind at the airport, and the material of his arm that shined when he had another throat between his fingers. 

"Everything’s gonna be okay, Buck," Steve says, twisting around for blue to meet blue. 

He answers with a grim nod and if he didn’t know the small quirks and dips in Steve’s temple or the excessive blinking that results when he lies, Bucky would have believed him. He wants to — trust that the sick kid from Brooklyn can subdue the conflict hot and simmering within an organization that he has no part in.   


Though, he can’t help but wonder if everything would already be okay if Steve had let him drown. 

Unity and division. 

_It’s his fault._

He chases the dirt path along the edges of civilization, kicking smooth pebbles with his sandals as the sun falls below the horizon. A saccharine aroma of peeled oranges swirls in and out his nostrils, curling around the crickets in the grass and singing birds nesting in the trees. Warm stripes from a yellowed star paint his skin a glassy gold and thaw the lingering ice on his fingertips. 

They near the end, a circled area surrounded by lush greens and a clear river. It’s where he lives now, adjacent to a family with children that are far too busy to inquire why an outsider invades their plot of land. Shuri likely told them to turn their heads the other way; she’s kind like that.  


"Will you be able to find your way home by yourself next week?" She asks, pocketing her hands in her slacks, a teasing grin reminiscent of himself decades ago. He grunts, opening his mouth to respond, though she continues, "Still feeling okay?"  


Bucky nods for the fourth time this evening and memorizes the holes in the ground. "I’ll be fine."  


"Alright," Shuri stretches, waving at the children wrestling in the grass and staining their clothes a faded sage. She halts her movements when the door of his hut is a few feet to her right. "I think seeing Steve again was good for you."  


_It’s his fault._

"Yeah."

There’s an awkward silence settling, mimicking the sun and the few moments of sunlight in the day. The blue sleeve tied around his neck wavers in the slight breeze and he has half a mind to tug his hair behind his ears. So he does. Only one arm follows his command, the other as real as you — standing, arms crossed and light outside the door of his home. It never ceases to paralyze him, stall his breath and bite at his lip until crimson paints his teeth.

She notices and frowns a little, eyes glazing over with sympathy. "It will take some time for you to adjust. You shouldn’t push it." Shuri spares one last smile before patting his shoulder without fear of him flinching away. He’s getting better at that. "Goodnight, Sergeant Barnes."  


Bucky mumbles a soft adieu, mustering a smile of his own when she turns on her foot and backs out to the trail. In true fashion, a pitched hum from the mouth of a bird begins to splinter the balmy air at her exit. Shaking his head he shuffles to his hut, wiggling his toes when the grass tickles his feet and poke through the straps of his shoes. 

He slants his head, copying your motions like a reflection in the mirror. If he squints, he can visualize the waved patterns carved into the browned clay like the small rumbles in the body of water behind him through your silhouette. Intricate and drawn with purpose, much like yourself. 

You jut the left side of your mouth up, a brow ensuing in the same movements. As quickly as you appeared, you dissipate into fragments of an astronomical phenomenon when you walk backwards into the hut. The curtains in the entrance are stagnant and unmoving, only pulled aside as Bucky uses his right hand to duck in. For each step back, a subsequent step forward follows.

Easy.   


Simple.   


Pushing and pulling.   


A routine.  


Something straightforward for him to fall into, arms wide and puddles of azure subject to an island with lush forests and diverse species. It’s part of the reason why he doesn’t chase you anymore, rather sinks his feet into the dirt and engrain the image of an enflamed star and blooming flowers during sticky afternoons. Somehow, at the end of a twenty-four-hour clock, he will always meet you as pale stars dot a dark sky and oceans wave to him in greeting. You are a promise, like a sun that will rise in the east and set in the west. 

It is painless; your grin, sitting on your heels at the head of his cot, hands tucked under your chin as you lean against a flat pillow. The innate balm of harmony and fondness that bleed from your very hands in wisps of silver and cobalt. The deep pits in his bones that gravitate toward you.   


Bucky slumps onto the pile of threaded blankets and huffs, an exasperated sound that prompts a silent laugh from your chest. He bathes in your tranquillity and light, removing the coloured cotton from his body and slipping under the slight breeze of the night. 

_It’s his fault._

Mocking a magnet of some kind, you pull over to him and offer a piece of solace through a flurry of faded blues and an amiable tilt of your mouth. He braces for it, closing his eyes and pressing his lips together, anticipating a bright kaleidoscope. Your gentle palm cradles the wrinkled area between his hairline and brows, the other trailing a close second.  


He breathes; chest inflating and deflating, a cycle that Shuri practices with him to soothe sweltering burns of anxiety and the persistent lingerings of paranoia still apparent outside the ice. The words leave his throat before he can stop them and, "No — wait."  


Fluttering his lashes, Bucky pushes onto his elbows and grows rigid as your movements halt. A furious heat crawls up his neck and around his ears at the image of your offended expression. Unrivalled fear chases the spots of unconsciousness from his sight and your glow is a light that makes him cower for the first time.   


Contrarily, the edge of your lip quirks higher and your eyes are tender with reflections of the dark blanket above. 

Challenging.

It’s unfortunate then, that Bucky has already lost.  


"It’s my fault," He whispers. Your hand on his forehead rests there, a thumb brushing over his brow. You slant your head, encouraging him to proceed with his train of thought. "They’re fugitives."  


You smile delicately and root yourself to the carpeted ground, listening to the buzzes of insects outside that coincide with Bucky’s heartbeat. Perpetually listening and patient with a man who is still learning to grow, even after the better part of a century. 

The rest of the night passes by quickly as opposed to the array of harrowed thoughts that pick and prod his head into shatters. Although, you’re a weight that anchors him from flying too close to the flames while he babbles and the stabbing throb in his flesh becomes a feeling he can tolerate. It’s awful, truly, the act of consciousness and realization of consequences that seem far too harsh in a reality where living is the cruellest outcome. He traces the lines in the wall and the distorted moonlight until the black doesn’t seize his airways and constrict the blood in his veins. 

He’ll do it repeatedly — each evening until Bucky can think about the world outside of Wakanda without flinching. And when he can’t, you’re leaning on his cot, sitting on the floor with bright films of support in your irises and a hand that could bandage his mind if he’s too tired to do it himself.

Falling and climbing in and out of the abyss happen more often than he will admit to Shuri, but the children outside his hut still look at him the same. _You_ look at him the same. Then, one day, when you leave with a mist of reflective shards in shades that belong to Steve’s colour palettes, Bucky watches the sunrise from the crack between the curtains.   


Dusk and dawn.

_It’s his fault._  


But the earth continues to spin and he can only move forward. From where he feeds his goats and plants his fruit, all he has is time to mend the cracks in his porcelain mask. Even if the bad days numb his fingers and stall his heart.  


Even if it is his fault. 

Dusk and dawn.  


He loves this place.  


The weather that nestles into the folds of his browned skin and flushes a smeared scarlet on his cheeks, while saccharine swells burst in between his teeth. In addition to the children that ogle at his farm and the overgrown animals parading the fenced area.   


Although, the weather is a stagnant, taunting backdrop to the series of blood and dead corpses that replace the children who used to skip in the fields. Aliens with human-like limbs and mouths unable to hold their overwhelming number of teeth that make his skin crawl and shudder at the sheer amount of them.  


It isn’t what he remembers, however. Bucky remembers the assault rifle in his hands and the panic in Steve’s face when his fingers morphed into coloured ash, the rest of his body followed shortly after; he recalls the final puff of air that leaves his lungs and the vibrant blurs of yellow and green behind his eyelids.

Half a second later, his memory vanishes like the rest of his physical body and he feels you before he sees you. Bucky’s no Wakandan Princess, though he comes to the conclusion that the grasp of his hand in yours in broad daylight is not necessarily a good thing like the stir in his belly declares it to be. 

He twists around and your expression is a swirl of confusion, your mouth ajar and eyes searching. The sun that he retains melts into a pot of paint, gentle streaks around him and brush strokes of glitter replace them. You’re still, unmoving and skeptical as if you’re asking him _, "What are you doing here?"_  


_"I don’t know,"_ Bucky wants to say, repeat to the point where his tongue is dry and aching for a drop of water. But he can’t — it’s as though he’s frozen under ice moreover, simple actions turning into intentions equal to capturing fragments of the moon. At the glimpse of his mouth opening and closing, the crinkle around your eyes soften and you muster a smile.   


You take his other hand and interlace it with yours, lacking the habitual flare that he’s accustomed to seeing you with. More often than not, he’s abhorrent at eye contact; yet with you, Bucky’s sight drifts to you without missing a beat. Blinding, white stars and crescent moons clutter the coloured loop of your eyes and pollute the black in his. 

It’s infectious and unnerving the feeling that pools in his chest, begging for him to dive in and explore the labyrinth underneath the surface. Spend his time indulging in a childish joy and excitement that a lifetime of treacherous scientists and handlers could not dismantle. He supposes that he has more than enough time now.

Love and hate. 

Bucky is selfish and desires a truth different from this timeline. He wants to meet you in a dimension that has as much good as there is bad; a reality of people with extraordinary powers that threaten to tip the scales of justice when morals are interrogated for better or worse. He detests the apparent line of pale and dark separating the two of you.   


Bucky hates the screen between life and death.  


Love and hate.  


Steven Grant Rogers is a childhood friend and someone he will always be attached to, regardless of the billions of avenues they choose together or individually. Steven is the brother he grew up with and fiercely defended in the alleyways of Brooklyn. Grant is the artist with smudges of charcoal on his fingertips and a knack for colour theory. Rogers is the man behind a starred shield with unyielding courage and stubbornness that doubles as stupidity more often than not.   


Bucky loves them all the same.

Which is why he hates them when Steve leaves his present for his past.

It’s a sincere lie, but it rivals as the greatest pain he’s known. And, he’ll forgive him, still. Once the shock has waned and the image of an old, content Steve no longer sets a fire in his chest. Bucky will heal because he’s done it before, and he’ll do it again.  


He has Sam now, too. Vehemently annoying and pestering to the point where Bucky’s scalp aches from tugging his hair and uncomfortably perceptive when he leans against his bedroom doorway, saying, "I don’t want you to think I’m replacing him."  


He lifts his head from the book in his hand, shifting in the brown armchair. "I don’t."

Their gazes hold for a moment and Bucky’s eyes flicker back to the line of text; he hears Sam clear his throat and push away from the doorframe, lingering under blankets of yellow light.   


"You should get a haircut."

Bucky’s mouth stalls for a second too late and his new Captain is strutting away, leaving him alone with his thoughts and a sudden insecurity. The tendrils of his hair itch the sides of his face and he ignores the smirk on Sam’s face as the week progresses and Bucky begins to find a use in elastics. Near the end of the month, he discovers his newfound partner has a cackle only revealed by strands of brown hair on the ground and a pair of scissors on the sink.

His head feels lighter — a claim refuted by Sam when he chortles and, "It isn’t your hair that’s making you lighter, dumbass."

Bucky rolls his eyes and shrugs on a jacket, trailing behind Sam and the short blonde with her arm looped around the Falcon's arm. He eyes the crowds around him with painted faces and handmade jewellery from the vendors scattered over the festival grounds, giggling under sheer shadows and the anticipation of a blood moon.  


Red and white tents house carnival games and stuffed prizes, partners tossing coins in hopes of earning a fuchsia bear. It’s a roaring and thrilling affair after the worst event in human history and it just so happens that Bucky has something to look forward to. To his right, a large clock flicks closer to zero and the world grows darker, standing between the moon and the sun.   


The crowd silences, save for a couple murmurs and shuffles in the throng of people. Dust settles, turning the image of a blazing circle of silver to crimson and white at the edge. One of the festival guides brushes past him in a red blazer, a name glossed on a blue pin to join their fellow escorts. Sam parts from the girl on his shoulder to allow them through, and then he sees blue.  


Adjacent to the man with the microphone, you’re grinning into the crowd and folding your hands into shapes and words quickly. Below your name tag is a mono-coloured sticker and two mirrored hands, bent to create a hole between the thumb and pointer finger. The sleek image refracts the minimal amount of light escaping the umbra, reminding Bucky of koi fish in a hotel lobby.  


Your stare is diligently narrowed at the script in front of you, stopping when you reach the bottom of the page the same time the announcer does. At that, a flood of chins tilt upwards, pointing and awing at the phenomenon above you all. Bucky burns like the moon under your gaze, blinking as if he can’t quite comprehend the person disguised as you — slanting your head sideways and the penumbras coating the city in black curl around your fingers, like the rest of the mortals on this earth.  


And you might be.  


You might be, if he rubs the smoke from his eyes and notices the lack of yellows and greens on your palms. A language that Bucky is suddenly desperate to learn pours from your fingers. Silent, perhaps; though you’re as loud as the waves in the sea and he hopes you realize the relief you provide to not only him, but the child to his left copying your movements. You smile a crooked, human-like grin, a small wave in his direction to follow shortly after. He watches you turn to look at the lunar eclipse, signing to the person on your left. 

Bucky’s hands are shaking and Sam touches the back of his hand, sending a concerned glance. He merely nods and tips his nose to the sky, breathing with the flares of the moon. Red— an eerie scarlet enveloped by shades of black and white. He closes his eyes, tasting the salt in the ocean, the sticky warmth of summer and vanilla ice cream. Flashes of a rainbow and inky black are absent behind his lids, replaced by the colour of his Ma’s hair and the metal of carnival rides. 

Quiet, the world circling him. 

Grey.

Bucky discovers the in-between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a love story. i have left the ending a bit ambiguous because, in all honesty, the focus of this story has never been about bucky x reader falling in love. it's about bucky learning to love himself in the fuckcoaster that has been his life and reader helping him through that because we all need a little support. and, especially with everything going on, i think it's important to remember love doesn't exist just between romantic partners, but with family, friends and strangers. anyways, thanks for reading :)

**Author's Note:**

> part two should be up within the week! i'd also love to hear some feedback too.... haha...jk......unless...? (if you didn't notice I'm trying a new writing style and using no breaks !! wow !! something that makes me a lil insecure ngl)


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